


The Silk Dressing Gown

by geekmama



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Domestic Violence, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 15:56:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12369111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekmama/pseuds/geekmama
Summary: Same story, different version...





	The Silk Dressing Gown

She was pleased to see that her hand did not tremble as she reached for the silk dressing gown, taking it from where it hung, the last garment at the side of her closet, out of plain sight these many weeks. She had sworn, on that terrible evening, never to wear it again. But she had not rid herself of it, though burning it, giving it to their lowliest housemaid, or merely stuffing it in the bin had all occurred to her at the time. Yet in the end she’d done none of those things, and that, perhaps, told its own tale.

The material was gorgeous, a deep, shining teal blue adorned with hand-painted lotus flowers and cranes. Very beautiful. Very expensive. It had been his wedding gift to her, and she had worn it a great deal in the first months of their union.

An intimate gift for a marriage of convenience.

She had never wished to marry. Her father had been a doctor, a man of science, and her ambition had been focused on following in his footsteps. Her older sister’s death in childbed confirmed her determination to eschew “wedded bliss”, coupled with the fact that she had never before or since met a man that tempted her to do otherwise. The arrogance and self-satisfaction of the male of the species seemed boundless, her father being the sole exception in her experience. It was only he who could command her respect and obedience, only he, with his quiet strength, wisdom, and humility who was worthy of her love.

How she had changed her tune, she thought now, her lips quivering against a smile.

Sherlock hadn’t wished to marry either. He was dedicated to his work, a consulting detective of great value to Scotland Yard, and was in the habit of viewing women as specimens of moderate to no interest, and sentiment as something to be avoided like some undesirable bacterium.  _ The grit on the lens _ , he’d explained in quite reasonable tones -- even as he was asking for her hand in marriage.

She had, at the time, been entirely in sympathy with this view.

Her father had died, leaving her, her mother, her two younger sisters, and her little brother virtually penniless. Her mother was unable to do more than take in sewing, her own health being what it was, and so, in the end, Molly had been forced to reconsider matrimony. She was not entirely dowerless, an aunt having left two thousand pounds to be given to the first of the three younger Hooper daughters to wed. But the sum was not thought to be sufficient to attract a match of any brilliance, so when Sherlock had asked for her hand, her mother and young sisters felt it to be something of a miracle.

The reality was far more prosaic.

He had, with cool logic, decided that he needed a wife, and for a number of reasons. His mother, a force to be reckoned with, had been at pains to introduce him to every eligible female of her acquaintance since he’d come of age, a process of which he’d grown weary over the years; Then, too, it had become more and more clear to him that attaining the status of a married man would be of use in his work, ease the way for him in all sorts of situations and with all manner of people. Whether it was true or not, a married man had about him an aura of honesty and respectability that a single man, a  _ confirmed bachelor _ , could never claim for his own.

He had explained all this in the clearest terms when he had proposed to Molly. They would form an alliance which would allow them to pursue their own paths, while maintaining an outward appearance of domestic harmony. His mother would eventually become reconciled to the lack of grandchildren, and Molly’s mother and younger siblings would be provided for. It had seemed the perfect arrangement.

The wedding had been quiet and tasteful, the honeymoon in Paris a delight (they had visited the _Exposition Universelle_ , as well as a number of museums, including the great _Muséum national d'Histoire naturelle_ ), and they had returned home intending to settle back into their usual pursuits, with the addition of the occasional meal together.

There had been only one flaw to this plan. They had, even then, begun to fall in love with each other.

It was not an easy process. Neither of them were happy with the situation, and it made them both cross at times. Molly found that she was extremely attracted to her husband, handsome and devastatingly sharp witted as he was, and often worried about his more dangerous adventures involving Scotland Yard and the lower echelons of society. But Sherlock worried about her welfare, too, and this was what led to their… falling out.

Falling out. A mild term for what had occurred that horrible night in November.

A month before, he’d forbidden her to go back to her work at the infirmary, located in what was admittedly one of the poorest parts of London, after she and one of the nursing sisters narrowly escaped injury in a riot. But this was too much. She would not brook his interference. This was not what they had agreed upon at the outset of their relationship. “Nevertheless,” he had said and, to her fury, had refused to discuss the matter further.

So she had ignored him.

And then, a month later, she’d found herself quailing (inwardly) beneath his gaze when the infirmary was robbed, one of the attendants murdered, and Sherlock had shown up with Lestrade of Scotland Yard to investigate.

He had barely said a word to her on the cab ride home, and she had gone up to her rooms unaccompanied, to clean up and get ready for bed. The hour was quite advanced, since everyone had been questioned at some length, and she had no appetite for dinner after the day’s events. She was feeling guilty and ashamed, and a little fearful, yet angry that she felt so. More and more angry. And it was with a flush of outrage that she swiftly threw the silk dressing gown over her nightdress and pulled the sash tight about her waist as she heard him coming up the stairs. He walked in without knocking.

The words they’d exchanged, the bitter anger… she could barely think of it now without a shudder of horror. In the end, she had slapped him, and would have done so a second time if he had not caught her wrist, then dragged her after him to the bed where he sat, jerked her over his lap and actually spanked her, long and hard, the thin material of the nightdress and the silk of the dressing gown providing but meager protection against his punishing hand.

Her yelps of pain were reduced to sobs of helpless rage and confusion by the time he pulled her to her feet again and gave her a little shake.  “There,” he said, his voice a growl, his eyes blazing. “I’ll probably regret that, but it’s done now and there’s no taking it back. You  _ will  _ obey me, wife, and tomorrow morning you will join me for breakfast and we will discuss exactly what that is going to entail. Now dry your tears and get some sleep.”  And he’d swept her up, as though she weighed nothing, and deposited her unceremoniously on the bed, where she could only turn away, curling into a ball of misery as he left the room.

She had not expected to be able to sleep, but she had dropped off, eventually, and was able to snatch a few hours of disturbed rest. She woke, heavy-eyed, as dawn was just beginning to light the sky, but by eight-thirty the dressing gown and nightdress had been stuffed in the back corner of her closet, and she had completed her toilet and was ready to go downstairs, though certainly she was not anxious to do so. For one thing she had been unable to rekindle the righteous anger that had consumed her the evening before, since in the cool light of a new day her anger seemed far less righteous, and the memory of the robbery and murder like something out of a nightmare. And for another… her backside was still abominably sore.

She succeeded in making her way downstairs and entering the breakfast room with a cold expression hiding her torment, but when he looked up from his newspaper and she saw that there was a faint but discernible bruise on his cheek where she had slapped him she felt such a thrill of combined horror and satisfaction that she could not keep from flushing vividly, her eyes widening slightly.

“Good morning,  _ wife _ ,” he said, drily. “You may sit down.”

She felt herself reddening further, but went to do so, then noticed there was a fat, soft cushion on her chair. She pressed her lips together and looked up at him, glaring, but he merely lifted a brow, though she was sure she detected a humorous glint in his eye, too. She considered her options.

He said, “I expect you’d like to throw it at my head, but you’d be better served just taking advantage of its presence. I remember all too well what _m_ _ ornings after  _ are like.”

She said, a little hoarsely, but pointedly, “ _ I _ have never had such an experience.”

“No? Well. You never will again, you have my word on it. We will part, sooner.”

Her anger faded abruptly, along with the burning color in her cheeks.

He said, rather more gently, “Sit down, Molly, and have some breakfast. Then we will talk.”

She swallowed hard, and did sit down, stoically expressionless. It was less uncomfortable than she had feared it might be, at least at first, and, not looking him in the eye at any time, she began to serve herself from the dishes on the table. He poured out some tea for her himself, then went back to reading his newspaper. She managed to eat a little, and drank a whole cup of tea, and presently felt better for it, though she was also increasingly aware of how sore she was, even with the cushion between her abused flesh and the hard wood of the chair.

Finally she set down her fork. “What is it you wish to say to me?” she asked, and cursed her unsteady voice. Tears stung the backs of her eyes, and she only wanted to go back up to her room.

He folded his newspaper neatly and put it down on the table, and sat there studying her for a moment. She forced herself to look up (the bruise on his cheek was startlingly visible), forced herself to meet his gaze, biting the inside of her lower lip to stop its trembling.

He said, evenly, “I won’t keep you long. But I must tell you that, in light of our experiences yesterday, and indeed of the last six months, I have decided that things will have to change. This marriage of convenience has grown far too _ in _ convenient in many ways, so that will be ended. Tonight I will come to you, and make you mine, as I should have done the night after we wed, and then we shall see whether or not this marriage will work.”

She stared, her heart in her mouth. “But… if I am unwilling…”

“If you truly are, then I will see what can be done to have the marriage annulled. But I don’t believe that will be necessary. However, you will have the rest of the day to think about it. I must go out, Scotland Yard calls again, and you will like to keep to your chambers, I daresay. You will probably feel much more the thing by this evening.” He got up from his chair, then, and came around and offered her his hand.

Her brain in a whirl, she automatically took it, rising (with some relief). And then, to her surprise and utter consternation, he bent and swiftly, gently, kissed her lips.

“Until tonight,” he said, then allowed himself a slight smile before he turned and left the room.

She spent the day in bed, worrying, wondering, napping.

She came to the conclusion that he was correct. She was not unwilling. If he could forgive her, she could forgive him. And he was also correct about their marriage. Things  _ had  _ changed between them in the last six months. There was a…  _ connection  _ that could not be denied, and might become something… good. And if it came to pass that she did have a child, well there was nothing to say that she would go the way of her sister. Her mother had borne five children, and it was only the last, little Augustus, that had given her much difficulty.

She found she could not help feeling an almost pleasurable anticipation regarding the approaching encounter, particularly as the hours passed and she began to feel less uncomfortable, This was even more noticeable after she’d had a long afternoon nap. She rose from the bed without much difficulty. Went to the cheval mirror and, lifting the hem of her nightdress, turned around, looking over her shoulder: still a bit reddened, but not the mottled, inflamed appearance of the early morning, by any means. She sighed, dropped the shrouding lawn and lace, and gingerly rubbed her bottom as she went to call for a bath.

But it was hours later, well after the dinner hour, that he returned, laid out on a hurdle, barely conscious, the gunshot wound in his chest sluggishly bleeding through the makeshift bandage.

“ _ Sherlock! _ ” she half shrieked, tears starting, but he did not reply. She turned to Lestrade. “How did this happen?”

“Got a lead on those murdering thieves from yesterday and followed ‘em to their lair, they weren’t much, had ‘em in hand in a trice, but then this other fella shows up and he had a pistol.  _ He  _ won’t be good for much, now, and the others are in lockup, but Mr. Holmes… well, I wouldn’t have had it happen for the world. Don’t think it hit the lung, he’s not coughing blood, but it’s an ugly wound and no mistake. I sent one of my men to roust out Dr. Watson. We should see him here shortly, I believe.”

“Let’s get him upstairs,” Molly directed, her medical training supporting her in this hour of need. She turned to her housekeeper, who was standing by, wringing her hands, and told her the things that would be needed, her medical bag, a basin of hot water, clean towels. “I’ll prepare the bed myself.”

In a few minutes they had Sherlock laid out on his bed, over which Molly had placed several layers of pristine sheets. She had also caused all the lamps to be lit, and had  two additional ones brought in so that the doctor would have plenty of light to see and work.

Sherlock had come to himself with a groan in the midst of all this.

“Husband!” Molly had exclaimed, sitting lightly beside him and taking his hand in both her own.

“Molly?” he said in a whisper. His eyes focused on her face. “I’ve been shot.”

“Yes. Dr. Watson will be here soon. If you will permit, I will remove this dressing and wash the wound in preparation.”

“Yes, alright. You will stay by me?”

Her heart swelled. “Yes. Of course.”

He kept his eyes on her face as she carefully untied the bandages and stripped them away. The housekeeper had brought her things, and a basin of steaming water. As gently as she could she washed away the blood with water and spirits.

Then Dr. Watson walked briskly into the room.

“Good God, Holmes, what have you done to yourself now?” he asked, trying for humor, but obviously very concerned.

Molly moved around to the other side of the bed, but Sherlock reached out to her, and she climbed onto the bed to sit beside him, her legs folded under her, taking his hand in both of hers and squeezing hard as Watson examined the wound. Sherlock made no sound, but went quite pale before it was over.

Then Dr. Watson said, “The bullet’s deep, but it’s clean enough and should be simple to extract.. I hesitate to give you much in the way of opiates, what with your history, but fortunately I have some chloroform about me. Molly, will you be able to assist?”

She nodded.

An hour later the thing was done, the patient bandaged and still groggy, the bloody linens carried off to be soaked in cold water.

“I know you will keep close watch over him,” said Dr. Watson. “There will be fever. I do not think it can be avoided, though I believe that I have cleaned the wound thoroughly enough to stave off much infection. I’ll return in the morning to see how he is.”

Molly thanked him, saw him out of the room, and turned back to her husband.

He was looking at her, eyes half-lidded as she walked over to him. He said slowly, “A reprieve for you, it seems.”

She pursed her lips. “We can discuss that later. When you are well.”

He sighed, obviously well aware that there would be many long days ahead before that eventuality came to pass. “Will you come to bed with me, at least?”

“No,” she said. “I will sleep there, in your reading chair by the window, so you’ll not be disturbed in any way. I will hear you if you need anything.”

He nodded, too weary and in too much pain to make an objection.

She did not sleep with him that night, but the next day he grew feverish and restless, and the second night became much worse, shaking with cold even as his flesh burned. She climbed into bed with him, then, and allowed him to pull her close, anchoring him in his chaotic need.

“Hurts,” he muttered.

“Your wound?”

“No.  _ Everything _ .”

“Oh, my heart,” she whispered. “I wish I could help you.”

But he had heard her. “You are,” he said. “Just… stay.”

She kissed his forehead, hot and dry under her lips, and pulled the covers tight around them both, and lay with tears trickling down her cheeks as he shivered in her arms.

Dr. Watson was not pleased the next day on examining his patient. “I fear some deep-seated infection. It’s all too common with wounds like these.” He cleaned the wound again thoroughly, trying Sherlock’s fortitude to the utmost, and afterward relented and gave him some laudanum. “Pain itself can be extremely debilitating, and cause a fever to rise.”

“Yes, I’m aware,” Molly said in a small voice.

“Now, now, courage is what’s called for here. I hope to avoid a resection, but what will be, will be. But he’s in the prime of life, I feel certain he will soon be on the mend.”

There were two more nights of little sleep for Molly, but on the fifth day she opened her eyes and stared into her husband’s, pale blue-green and quite lucid.

“Oh! You are better!”

“I believe so,” he said, and smiled a little. “So tired, though…” And his eyelids sank, even as he pulled her close.

She waited until he was fast asleep, then slipped from his embrace, and from the bed.

She did not again sleep with him, and he accepted this with a fairly good grace since she still stayed in the room, curled up in the overstuffed chair by the window, waking at his least need. He was soon sitting up in bed during the day, and she kept him company, except for the time she spent in the kitchen, seeing that appropriate foods were prepared to his liking. After a few more days he began to grow impatient at this enforced indolence, and then she distracted him with card games, or by reading aloud. But finally there came a day when Dr. Watson came to check on him and found him downstairs, reclining on the couch fully dressed save that he’d exchanged his suit coat for a blue cashmere dressing gown, and Molly seated at the window nearby, resigned.

After examining him, Dr. Watson said, “Once again you’ve the devil’s own luck, Holmes. You’ll be good as new in a month or so, thanks to my skill and your wife’s capable nursing.”

“A month!” Sherlock exclaimed, as though it were a life sentence.

“A month. I have informed Lestrade, and he is in agreement that he shall not call upon you until after the holidays. I suggest you go down to Sussex, to see your parents. They will be glad to have you both for Christmas. And it will give your wife some time to recover, too. She is looking a trifle peeked, I believe. I will prescribe a tonic for you, Molly. Put some spring back into your step.”

After Dr. Watson had departed, Sherlock asked Molly, “Do you wish to go to Musgrave for the holidays?” He was eyeing her closely, after Dr. Watson’s observations.

But Molly said, “I… perhaps another time? If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to have my mother and my sisters and brother here for Christmas Day. And we can invite your parents, and your brother, if you like.”

Sherlock frowned. “It sounds like a great many people for this house. Only for the day, though?”

“Well… perhaps my family could stay for one or two nights. Your parents favor the Savoy Hotel when they are in town, and I expect that will hold true in this case.”

He sighed. “Very well.” And closed his eyes, preparing to nap again.

Sherlock gained strength every day, though Molly was so busy with preparations for the holidays and the expected visitors that she did not see nearly as much of him as she had done in past weeks. He seemed rather quiet and irritable when she did see him, though she thought perhaps that was due to his on-going convalescence. He was still in pain at times, she knew, though Dr. Watson said this was to be expected and there was no sign of hidden infection. But by Christmas Day, he seemed to have his old strength back, and was surprisingly kind and welcoming to their guests.

Sherlock’s mother disconcerted Molly at one point during the grand dinner, commenting that the gift she’d most wanted had failed as yet to materialize: a grandchild. Molly felt her cheeks burning, and hardly knew what to say, but then her dear mother stepped into the breach.

“Molly is just as I was when I was first married. It was three years before Millicent was born to us, God rest her soul.”

Sherlock said nothing to all this, though Molly felt his eyes upon her.

But later, after they’d said goodbye to everyone and closed the door, Sherlock said to her, “Will you come into the library for a moment? I wish to say something to you.”

She followed him into the room, twisting her fingers together nervously, and stopped about ten feet away when he reached the mahogany desk, turned, and leaned against it, half sitting on the edge. Then he reached into his pocket and drew out a small gift-wrapped parcel. “My gift to you,” he said, simply and held it out.

She came over and took it from him, and carefully opened it. It was a tiny lacquer box, black, but painted with lotus flowers and cranes, and inside, on a pillow of teal silk was a ring, a somewhat heavy one of gold with a sparkling green stone set within. She looked up at him. “Is it an emerald?”

“For May. The month we were married.”

“It… Oh, it’s beautiful. But--”

“It’s my vow to you, Molly. For your freedom.”

She frowned. “My… freedom? What do you mean?” And a frisson of fear swept through her.

“Just this. You are free to come to me, or to stay away. To do what you like with your work, and I will protect you as I can, and advise you, but only if you wish it. I will soon be back at work, as you know, and I… I will bear it if we are to only remain friends. And I promise that I will never again raise a hand to you in anger. The memory of that night… sickens me.”

Tears were slipping down her cheeks. There were so many things she wished to say to him, but her voice was caught in her throat, and she only shook her head, and backed away a few steps, then turned and ran from the room.

That was an hour since. She stood now, looking again in the cheval mirror. Her tears dried, her hair brushed and shining, the emerald ring of his promise on the third finger of her right hand, just as the gold and diamonds adorned the left. And the silk dressing gown, with its lotus flowers and cranes, sheathing her body.

The hallway was dark, the servants all gone to bed, and her bare feet were silent on the carpet as she walked to his room, the room where she’d spent so many hours caring for him in his need.

He was not in bed, but sitting in his reading chair, which he’d drawn closer to the fire, and he had been so lost in thought that he did not notice her approach until she was halfway across the room. But then his eyes widened, and he breathed, “Molly!”

She came to him and stood before him, willing herself to be calm, to  _ not weep _ .

He reached out and stroked the heavy silk of her sleeve with the backs of his fingers. “You’re wearing it,” he said in wonder, and looked up, into her eyes.

“My gift to you,” she told him, her voice surprisingly steady; but her smile was a tremulous thing.

With both hands he loosened the sash, and the gown fell open, giving him a glimpse of what lay beneath. “My God…” he whispered, then put his arms about her and drew her close, laying his cheek against silk and bare skin.

She reached up to caress his cheek, and then tangled her fingers in his hair.

  
  


~.~     


End file.
